by Jocelyn Fox
I stepped aside and motioned for her to come into the room.
“How are you feeling?” she asked me. I noticed that she was wearing a different outfit than earlier—no leggings and tunic now, but a long flowing dress with full sleeves belted at the waist with what looked like woven silver.
“Better than when I first arrived,” I said truthfully.
“There are many rumors about how you arrived here,” Bren said.
“Oh?” I said, trying not to betray my curiosity.
“I’m supposed to help you get dressed for the celebration tonight.” Bren perched on the edge of my bed, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “And I will. But first, I have a question for you, if it’s all right.”
I smiled a little. “I don’t see anything wrong with a few questions.”
“I’m sorry, everyone always tells me I’m such a gossip and I know it’s not polite…but…is it true that the Vaelanbrigh carried you here in his arms?”
I shrugged, trying to remain aloof at the mention of Finnead. My body had other plans though, a current of white-hot heat racing through my belly as the image of his face as it had looked when he leaned over me in the Texas dirt rising unbidden in my mind’s- eye. “Yes, it’s true.”
“Interesting,” Bren said, a smile tugging at her lips.
“Why is that so interesting?” I asked.
“Oh,” replied Bren, “it’s just that….the Vaelanbrigh is famous for his aloofness.”
“Just because he carried me doesn’t mean he wasn’t aloof,” I said.
“No,” Bren said, “you misunderstand. He has been, since the Queen knighted him—not since he took up the Brighbranr, but before that, when he was an ordinary knight—he has never been seen to touch another soul except out of courtesy or extreme necessity. Not one of the Fae, not another mortal.”
I frowned. “But…my situation was a necessity.”
“Why would it have been necessary?” Bren shook her head. “The Vaelanbrigh risked his title and his life to save you. It was not necessary.”
“But…” I stopped and looked at her, confused. Then, from somewhere, a small bloom of anger warmed my chest. Finnead had taken all the credit for killing the garrelnost. If I hadn’t stepped in…I remembered the glistening foul claws of the beast and suppressed a shudder.
Bren cleared her throat. “Let’s get you dressed for meal, shall we?”
I opened my mouth to tell her that I had killed the garrelnost—or mostly, anyway—but then closed it again, a thread of doubt tugging at my mind. Finnead had carried me with infinite care, and I remembered the gentleness of his hands as he had examined my arm. Was there a reason he hadn’t told anyone of my part in the death of the hideous beast? A thought wriggled in the back of my mind. I allowed it to surface, and I remembered what Finnead had said to me through the haze of pain as he’d carried me to Darkhill. Something about not telling anyone that I knew about iron, that it was dangerous for mortals who knew the Sidhe’s weaknesses. I closed my mouth. That settled it, then. Although it rankled me, I was happy to let Finnead take all the credit if that would mean less trouble.
While I had been thinking, Bren had walked over to my wardrobe and opened it. “Good. They’ve given you a whole set of suitable clothes.” She pulled out a deep green dress. “This will set off your eyes nicely. It is always to one’s benefit to make a good first impression.”
“By good, you mean pretty?” I asked dryly.
Bren laughed. “I’ve read about mortal sarcasm, but I’ve never quite understood it until now.” She held out the dress to me. “I can’t wait to tell Egbert about my conversations with you.”
“Egbert?” I struggled not to laugh at the name.
“The Chief Scholar,” Bren said, sifting through more of my wardrobe’s contents. She motioned to the dress with one hand. “Put that on and I’ll find a belt and shoes for you. Then I have to fix your hair.”
I touched my hair with one hand, finding that the pins were indeed coming out. I decided not to let self-consciousness get the better of me, so I stripped down to my underwear, sliding the green dress on over my head and carefully pulling my injured arm through the sleeve. After rearranging the sling, I stood and waited for Bren to finish her perusal of the wardrobe. She turned with a belt in her hands, one of black leather with a design wrought in silver on the edges. I took it and buckled it around my waist; Bren adjusted it for me—apparently the Sidhe women actually wanted larger hips, so they put the belt low instead of cinching it at the waist. She handed me silver slippers and I slid them onto my feet, finding without surprise that they fit perfectly.
Bren sighed—with envy? I couldn’t quite believe that a woman who could pass for a marble Renaissance carving would be envious of me. “You’re much…curvier than any of us.” She slid me half a grin. “You’ll have to be careful. Stick close to me, if you want.”
“Careful of what?” I blinked.
Bren laughed, a sound that rose in the air like bells ringing. “Careful of the younger men at Court. You know,” she said slyly, “Ronan was quite taken with you.”
I thought of Ronan and his vibrantly green eyes, his mahogany-dark hair and teasing laugh. He was certainly handsome. “I don’t want any trouble,” I said honestly.
“Oh, my dear, it’s no trouble,” said Bren, her voice almost a purr. “You see, the High Code was set down before we were born—nearly five hundred years ago. The older ones, they remember mortal lovers. We don’t, so nearly every young Sidhe of the male persuasion is…intensely curious.”
I felt my cheeks flaming. “Well, I don’t intend to let any of them satisfy their curiosity,” I said firmly, proud that my voice didn’t waver.
Bren laughed again. “Trust me, they can be very persuasive.”
I shrugged. “I’m a stubborn mortal.”
Bren shook her head, and cocked it to one side, that curious gleam lighting up her eyes again. “You’re not thinking about a certain Knight, are you?”
“If you mean the Vaelanbrigh,” I said smoothly, “then no. Why would I? He shows me no more attention than he would a….a piece of furniture.” I resolutely refused to meet Bren’s gaze, focusing instead on rearranging my sling. I hoped she didn’t see the slight tremor in my hands, or that I was biting the inside of my lip.
After a moment, Bren said, “Well, let me fix your hair before we go to meal.”
I obediently sat on the edge of the bed and Bren knelt behind me. Her deft fingers rearranged pins, tucking strands here and there, so lightning-fast and light that I barely felt it. She hummed a sweet melody to herself as she worked. I liked her more for it, and the soothing sound helped me relax. I found that I had tensed during our conversation. The idea of a Sidhe lover…one of the handsome young men with Adonis-like faces and shimmering hair…the idea did make me go weak at the knees. But it was a weakness that I didn’t like. The thought of being looked upon as a rare sort of delicacy, to be tried for the satisfaction of raw curiosity, made me very uncomfortable. I told myself that I would stick close to Bren, and if I saw Finnead I would ask him about his version of the garrelnost’s death that those in the Court had heard, if I was really in the danger he had told me from knowing about iron. No more than that, no less.
“All right,” Bren said, slipping off the bed gracefully, “let’s be on our way. We wouldn’t want to be late to your first event in the Great Hall.”
I followed Bren out the door. “Is there something special about tonight, that everyone is eating in the Great Hall? Or do you do that every night?”
“The Queen is celebrating the successful return of the Vaelanbrigh,” replied Bren. “It was a high task she set him, and he succeeded.”
“A party in honor of Finnead,” I said. “I’m sure that’s exactly what he loves.”
“He doesn’t enj
oy celebrations in his honor, for the most part,” said Bren. Then she looked at me. “Oh. Mortal sarcasm. I apologize, I am still learning to sense when you’re not being serious.”
I shook my head. “Don’t you ever joke around? Or is it always business around here?”
“We haven’t had much reason to joke, as you say, lately,” Bren replied.
“It has to do with the war, doesn’t it?” I said, remembering our conversation with Glira. It seemed ages ago, the meadow on Crownhill and the chocolate bar melting slightly in the sunlight.
Bren stopped suddenly and turned toward me, eyes blazing. “Do not say anything more about that.” She took a deep breath. “For the purposes of tonight, you must be a pretty, harmless mortal. Do not test the boundaries of the Queen’s patience.” Her eyes bored into mine. “The Vaelanbrigh risked your life as well, bringing you here. You need to remember that, and watch your words.”
I closed my mouth. Bren held my gaze for another long moment, and then turned, motioning for me to follow her again. The hallway widened as we went, and we passed through a courtyard paved with smooth white stones, a large tree towering in the middle of it. Bren led me to a large door on the other side, and then through a succession of antechambers. “We’re not using the main entrance,” she said. “Ramel thought it best if you made your entrance unobtrusively.”
“Fine with me,” I said. Bren stepped forward and I went to follow her.
Then I heard the sound of bells, coming from the opposite direction that we had just traveled. I turned toward the sound, it was so lovely and silver—much like the silver sound that had engulfed me crossing through the Gate, but this sound was gentler, more beautiful in its subtlety. It fell like a veil over my senses, intoxicating and soothing. I wanted more than anything to hear those bells for eternity. Some part of me realized that I was bewitched by the sound, and I tried to fight it, but it was a very small part of me, and the bells were so very beautiful…I took a step forward, and then I heard Bren curse. Out of the corner of my eye I saw her grab for my arm, except I had turned so that she was by my right side, and her hand closed on my right forearm. The pain bursting from my arm brought me sharply back to reality, and I heard myself gasp. I heard a stream of words from Bren, low and urgent, “Come on, those are the Queen’s bells and by the Great Gate if she catches you here—if she sees you before she’s sent for you—”
Bren turned me roughly and grabbed my other arm, pulling me hard toward the door. The pain from my arm made me dizzy, and I didn’t see the small stone step before the door. My foot caught and I landed on my knees, hard. Bren swore again, this time almost frantically, then the sound of the bells caught hold of me and my knees buckled as I felt my mind swelling with the silver sound. Bren hauled me bodily to my feet, her slim pale hands supernaturally strong. The bells rolled over me like a tide. I realized we were standing still, backs to the door, and Bren was very pale, paler than she had been even though I thought that impossible. She went very still, except for her hand gripping my left arm, holding me up. With an effort I got my feet under me just as a small group of Sidhe rounded the corner of the passageway, walking through the ebb and flow of the bell-sounds.
My eyes were immediately drawn to the woman walking in the center of the party. Her pale skin shone, the glow that I had only seen in brief flashes in the other Sidhe manifesting in full force in her proud features. I couldn’t fix the memory of her face in my head—it was like a shooting star, or a sunset, or starlight on the waves of the ocean, something constantly changing and achingly beautiful. On her brow sat a silver circlet, set with a single gem that I would have sworn was a star, pulsing softly. Her night-dark hair flowed down her back and over her shoulders. She wore a silver dress that could have been spun out of moonbeams, and on the hems of her sleeves and the edges of the gown’s train, there were small silver bells, sparkling even in the dim light of the hallway. And with a jolt I saw that walking beside the beautiful woman—the Queen, I knew without a doubt—wearing a silver vest that matched her gown and a gleaming black scabbard at his side, was Finnead.
I felt Bren pull on my arm, and I saw that she had sunk into a low curtsey, head bowed. The sound of the Queen’s bells flowed around me, pulling here and there at my mind like the current of a cold stream. I sank into what I thought could pass for a curtsey, hearing my own breath loud in my ears as I bowed my head and stared at the flagstones of the floor. Bren’s grip on my arm kept me anchored to reality, counterpoint to the silver bells.
Then the sound of bells faded, and a beautiful, terrible voice spoke. It was like hearing wolves howling and cold harsh rain and the soft chords of a harp, all at once, an intricate balance of exquisite loveliness and wild danger. “So here is the mortal you would have given your title and your head to save, my Knight.”
The Queen’s voice hurt my ears. Finnead made no reply. My legs began to tremble. Bren’s grip on my arm tightened. I kept my eyes on the floor, not daring to even glance up, pushing down the fear that suddenly clogged my throat, goose-bumps racing up and down my arms.
The Queen said something in a low voice to one of the other Sidhe in her party—her attendants, courtiers, I realized. I heard light footsteps, and a hand on my good arm. “The Queen wishes to look into your eyes,” I heard a familiar voice say in my ear. I raised my eyes a little and saw Guinna, her beautiful face serene except for her eyes. Her gaze held a spark of concern, almost worry—worry?—for me. Bren released my arm and I stood, wavering a little. Guinna, her head just barely reaching past my shoulder, kept a firm hold on my arm. I kept my eyes downcast as Guinna led me forward, struggling to keep my breathing even and my step steady.
“Look up,” Guinna said in a low voice. “And do not flinch.”
Fear turned my limbs to ice. I suddenly knew that I couldn’t have moved even if I had wanted; I was frozen in place, and it was terrifying. The beautiful, soft-spoken Queen frightened me more thoroughly than the garrelnost, more than passing through the Gate when I thought I was dying. At least then I’d had Finnead’s gentle arms around me. I looked at him for a desperate instant—and to my surprise he was looking back at me, his blue eyes intense with an emotion I couldn’t immediately place. I saw him take half a step forward, and one of the other men behind him—a tall fellow with long dark hair—put a hand on his elbow. Finnead clenched his jaw and stood his ground as the Queen glided forward. I raised my chin a little as Guinna stepped away, breaking eye contact with Finnead and taking a deep breath.
I focused my gaze on the Queen’s crown. She was only a fraction taller than me. I could have reached out and touched her, but every instinct in my body screamed at me to run, to put as much distance between me and this beautiful, perilous woman as possible. I clenched my good hand into a fist resolutely.
“We almost beheaded our favorite Knight,” said Mab in her soft silvery voice, “because he deemed it proper to save you.” She slowly raised one pale hand. “We must see, then, if his judgment was sound.”
She slid her fingers under my chin, holding my jaw with her thumb and forefinger. I couldn’t help the small sound of pain that escaped my clenched teeth: an icy-hot agony bloomed where the Queen’s skin touched mine. I resisted every instinct to jerk back.
“Do you know who we are?” asked Mab softly, her thumb tracing a sensual circle on the softest part of my neck.
“The Queen,” I said breathily, “of the Unseelie Court.”
“Our word,” continued the Queen, “is life and death. Prepare thyself, young mortal.”
Mab’s switch to archaic English somehow struck another chord of fear in me, bringing visions of medieval fire and brimstone, witches burning at the stake. Her grip tightened as she brought my chin up, forcing me to meet her gaze.
I tried my best not to scream. I didn’t know if I succeeded. Mab’s silver gaze pierced me like a bullet, and then I was swallowed by her eye
s and the physical pain was the least of my worries. Razor-sharp claws raked over my soul, tearing at the most tender parts of me, ripping at my most intimate and cherished memories. I tried hard not to let her see my part in the death of the garrelnost, or my thoughts of Finnead. I felt the Unseelie Queen within me, her presence alien, her beauty stripped away, leaving only the most dangerous parts of her as she wended her way through my innermost being. Dimly I heard gasping, choking noises, laced with little bubbling sounds of pain.
Fatherless mortal, said Mab in my head, you are such an uncertain young thing—and yet…there is something…
I desperately drew up my last reserves of strength, putting everything I had into shielding my memories of the battle with the garrelnost. A burst of pain exploded in my skull as she tried to break my last defenses. I bent all my will at turning her gaze away…and then I thought faintly through the pain that perhaps building a wall wasn’t the best way to defend my memories—perhaps I could just make her slide around them. So I concentrated on my memory of Finnead plunging his sword into the hideous beast, pushing it to the front of my mind. I carefully encapsulated my part in its death, smoothing it over like a river-rock, compressing the memory until it sat, small and hard, in the very back of my mind. The Queen’s touch flowed over it, catching the image of Finnead instead.
I dimly felt Mab’s surprise before she pulled her hand away, turning her eyes from me, leaving me gasping. The whole ordeal had lasted less than two or three minutes, but I felt as though I had just run a marathon, sweat sliding down my back beneath the green gown, my right arm throbbing gently in its sling as I tried to catch my breath. Bren was at my side again.
“Vaelanbrigh,” said Mab, her beautiful voice sending shivers down my spine.
